


I fall on my knees (in perpetual surrender)

by LiberaMeDelailah



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betaed, Bittersweet, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Hurts So Good, I Tried, M/M, Nightmares, Reunions, Sad and Happy, There is a happy ending y'all but it takes a while to get there, WE'RE NOT DYING LIKE MEN, YES GUYS I GOT A BETA, fantasy imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29186676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberaMeDelailah/pseuds/LiberaMeDelailah
Summary: Poured myself a warm glass, and laid awakeI prayed the lord my soul to takeI thought about you all day, how we have the same faceI fell asleep so confused, parts of me remind me of youHow could I ever wish away?- Sky Ferreira.Geralt went to the south, looking to chase the cold away - and yet, the chill in his soul remained.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 86





	I fall on my knees (in perpetual surrender)

**Author's Note:**

> This was beta'ed by Esmee on twitter (https://twitter.com/QueenNumbat), by Loki-chan (https://twitter.com/lokichan2004), Caty (https://twitter.com/catybug007) and Ash (https://twitter.com/scandalousloki)!  
> Thank you so much for the support and I don't know if I would've posted this without you! ;v;!

_Geralt dreamt - of a time where he felt he was safe. Of a man that made him feel… human. Of flowers, mountains and the twilight. He dreamt of the scent of Chamomile and Lavender, and of home. But where was home, for a Witcher?_

_He yearned, for so much, and yet… He feared._

The night was long, empty, and quiet. Geralt stared at the sky, the horizon mixing in with the canopies of pines in the distance – and the only company he had was the sound of the firewood as it cracked under the heat of the flames. The Witcher looked on, to the heavens, until he heard a voice he already knew, laughing lightly on the other side of the bonfire.

He turned his gaze to the voice, bewildered. There, on the other side of the camp, was Jaskier sitting, his legs crossed, his lute between his hands as he played the first two chords of _Toss a Coin_.

“Hey, old friend.”

His voice was so far, yet so close. It was filled with mirth, and joy, just as it had been so many years ago – and yet, it was so, _so_ cold – as if the flames could not quite reach it. “You’ve gotten quieter, as the years have gone by, no?” Jaskier chuckled, and laid the lute close to the fire, _closer_ than he normally would - Geralt wanted to reach out, take the lute away from danger. “Come, now. The beasts are calm tonight, are they not? Let us take a walk.”

His cornflower blue eyes met with Geralt’s, and the Witcher stood, almost as if commanded by some higher power. The bard led him into the woods, and it seemed so far away from camp – and yet, so _near_. The ground beneath their feet made a small sound as they walked through the grasses.

“It’s been a while, how have you been?” The bard asked, the same cheeriness in his voice as before. “Oh, but you don’t need to answer, I know words are not your forte. Don’t force them out, dear.”

So, they marched, side by side, Jaskier sometimes filling in the silence with stories that made sense to only himself – and that was fine. It reminded Geralt of a peaceful past, of a time far away, a sweet, everlasting memory that was buried deep within his very heart.

After a while, the Witcher got lost in the sound of Jaskier’s voice, mixing in with the soft tones of the grass beneath their feet, and the rustling of the leaves from above, in the canopies – so lost the Witcher got in the rhyming of the world, that he did not see the scenery morph – slowly, _slowly._

_It was the sound of stones as they slid once against the other, it was the ground against their feet turning sturdier, sloped. It was the sky, turning from darkness to light in the infinity. Soon, the two of them stood at a mountain top._

They sat, watching the sky turn unnaturally fast – the clouds painted with colors Geralt never knew existed – and in the end, the heavens ended in a mixture of night and day, the twilight, but not quite there yet.

“Ah.” Geralt heard Jaskier whisper. “Still haven’t found what pleases you, have you, my friend?” The Witcher turned to look at his friend – he was smiling, those smiles that never quite reached his eyes. “Don’t worry, some never find it. Not truly, anyways. A sparkle of joy is more than enough.”

Jaskier’s gaze left the Witcher’s, resting in the sky filled with day and night. “You were my sparkle.” The bard stared at his hands, and as if under the pressure of his gaze, they began to crack – and from the cracks, flowers began to grow. Geralt felt fear tighten his throat suddenly, and he tried to take hold of Jaskier’s hands, but the bard simply danced away, standing from the stone he used as a seat. “Don’t worry, old friend.” He murmured, his voice breaking as his face began to crumble away. “You’re not at fault.”

Geralt tried to reach him, to touch him, but all he managed to catch was the red doublet as the ashes of his friend began to be carried away by the wind. The Witcher tried to scream, but his voice would not listen to his heart – leaving behind only silence.

_Ciri filled in the quietness, her sweet little voice making up stories. She reminded him so much of Jaskier. She was bright, elegant, and she burned in the way only a star could. But she couldn’t stay. The world was hunting her. They wanted her. She needed to be safe. And so, the world was once again silenced, returned to whispers and half-spoken truths._

* * *

The Witcher woke up, covered in sweat. He felt nauseous, dizzy even. His hands trembled as he reached for his face, covering it with both his palms. _How long has it been? How long has it been since he last heard that voice in the real world?_ He could not remember – months? Years? Perhaps.

He tried to stand, but his legs could not carry the weight of his guilt. He fell to his knees, one hand still covering his face as the other laid on the _cold, hard_ ground. He stayed there, sinking deeper and deeper in the dread of everything he could have done, and did not.

The world seemed to become so much bigger, and he felt so small in comparison – and he tried to growl, to scream the feeling out of his chest but each time, the desperation only grew _like a fire._

The camp was empty – but in its emptiness, Geralt felt the company of something far more sinister, _the loneliness._ He had left Ciri with Yennefer, knowing the Sorceress could take care of her – give her what he could not… And now, the only _friendship_ he kept were his thoughts.

After a while, he focused on the feeling of his palm touching the ground. He focused on the cold earth beneath his fingertips – on the breeze against his cheek. Geralt managed to bring himself back into focus, and with trembling limbs he stood valiantly – he took one deep breath – and the tightness in his chest subsided.

_And yet, the cold remained._

He folded his bedroll and packed it away in Roach’s saddle. His mare looked at him as if she knew what was troubling his mind, and with her muzzle she gently pushed into Geralt’s stomach – as if asking the question about whether he was fine or not.

“Don’t worry, girl.” He whispered, caressing behind her ear, just as she liked. “Next village, I’ll try to get you an apple.” A lie, since his pockets were empty, but at least it was something to look forward to.

“An apple, a nice, warm bath.” He filled in the quietness with his own voice, something that he did only in the loneliest of nights. The Witcher mounted his mare, and rode up to the south, trying to get away from the cold he felt in the depths of his chest.

_Yennefer was cold, when they saw each other again. She was distant, and yet, she connected with Ciri instantly. Geralt was glad to see it, to see them grow slowly into a family. Ciri and Yen were happy together, like they’ve known each other for hundreds of years._

_Geralt parted with them after a few weeks, promising to meet in Winter - feeling a chill in the depths of his heart - this was home… but it wasn’t complete. Something was lacking. Where? Where was the piece that did not fit?_

_He kept on dreaming, and dreaming, and_ **_dreaming_ ** _\- and he feared, and feared, and_ **_feared._ **

* * *

The next village, as it turned out, had a contract. The Alderman was offering 250 for the head of a griffin, which was killing livestock. Geralt took the contract, with no hesitation, but asked for a bath as well as payment. The Alderman was not pleased but complied after a few minutes of cold silence from the Witcher. “Bring me the head, Hexer.”

And so, Geralt went to look for clues. Specifically, he went to a young farmer’s cottage, where the Alderman had directed him to. This farmer’s name was Johan, and he had been the last person to have seen the griffin.

Johan was standing in his garden, looking towards the sky. He was strong built, with wide shoulders and even wider arms. His gaze fell onto the Witcher, and Geralt was stunned into place – the eyes that regarded him with little to no interest were of a shade he knew _so well_. After a few seconds, that felt like hours, Geralt caught himself and walked over to the stranger. He tried to appear cold, disconnected, unfeeling… _Distant._

“Hexer?” Johan’s eyes studied him, going from bored to slightly curious once Geralt’s sword came into view. He had _bright_ eyes.

“Yes. Here for the griffin.”

“Wild thing, that was. Came from the east, tried to take one of my cows, but Betsy was too heavy you see? So, it had to fly off without, but killed my cow anyways, the beast.” His eyes went back to the heavens – as if lost in memories. Geralt could not help but feel _nostalgic,_ washed away by melancholy, as he stared at the young man in front of him.

“Can I see the carcass?” His voice was even, almost a whisper.

“Help yourself, still in the back.”

Geralt went to the back of the small cottage, and there, he found Betsy. She was a small thing, barely two years. She was not as heavy as Johan described her – poor thing was probably not eating enough – which told Geralt one thing. The griffin was young, _very_ young, and was probably starving. Maybe it was a small litter – perhaps a dead mother. Geralt enhanced his senses, following the scent that was coming off the cow’s carcass.

Blood, rotten meat, wet feathers, hormones… Geralt followed the smell – the creature was flying low. The nest was a small thing, hidden away under a few trees. The griffin was indeed young, maybe one year. He looked at Geralt and shrieked, trying to leap back, opening his wings to try to seem bigger, meaner.

The Witcher could see the fear in the creature’s eyes. The uncertainty. “I’m sorry.” Geralt found himself whispering as he got closer and closer to the griffin – like a prayer, an orison to someone who was not there. “I don’t want to do this, but I don’t have a choice. Please, forgive me.” He murmured, and then, with a swift move of his silver sword, he went for the creature’s wing.

It took minutes to end the fight. Minutes, that felt like hours. Geralt tried, he tried to be kind, to be fast, to not prolong the pain of the creature, but the truth was, it hurt, and the Witcher knew the griffin did not understand _why,_ nor did he comprehend what he had done to deserve it.

In the end, Geralt stood in front of the carcass of a young griffin, the eyes of the creature looking up as if in reverence to a higher deity. The Witcher did not believe in Gods, but he felt compelled to pray, not for the first time ever since he was left on his own. He wanted to believe that _there was something_ beyond.

He cut the head off the griffin with a dagger he kept on his boot and closed the creature’s eyes as a small act of kindness. He went back into the village, carrying the head in his hand – and he knocked on the door of the Alderman’s cottage. Geralt told himself it was easy to let go of the head once the door was open. Geralt told himself it was simple, not to look at Johan once he passed through his cottage and went to the small inn in the village.

The Witcher told himself it was facile, to ignore the aching in his chest that grew heavier and heavier with every step he took.

_The bath was warm at least, the water was taking away the pains that laid right underneath his ribs._

“You’ve gotten quite used to baths, now, have you not, old friend?” Geralt heard Jaskier, and he did not even bother to turn his head. He felt hands wrapping around his neck, falling atop his pecs, one laying over his slow-beating heart. “Why does this griffin hurt so much, dear?”

Geralt did not answer, simply laying back and resting his head against the crook of Jaskier’s neck. “He was lonely, and hungry, wasn’t he? Fragile against a world that wants it to be mighty, and yet.”

“And yet.”

“So many stories are like that, are they not? Warriors and knights, all heroes of legend and powerful – all turning the world asunder with each of their steps… but were they really? Ah, to be but a mirage of the truth. A song. How wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Songs are filled with lies, Jaskier.”

“Ah, but the lies are what make it in history, old friend. Who would listen to the tale of a griffin and the pitiful cry he made as he called for his mother one last time? Dear, monsters are but monsters to humans, and no more.” Jaskier whispered in Geralt’s ear – and yet, his breath was cold. “Cruel, cruel Witcher. You hurt, and yet, to you we come.”

Geralt rested his hand over Jaskier's, feeling the coldness of the other’s skin, watching, as droplets of blood began to fall on top of his chest. “Is it easier, when I talk to you like this?” The bard sounded sad – distant, in a faraway land. “Does it hurt less?”

“I’ve looked for you.”

“If I wanted to be found, you would’ve found me by now. You took _e_ _verything_ from me. And I gave it away, willingly.” Their fingers intertwined, as the droplets continued to taint Geralt’s pale skin. The Witcher finally looked up, and he saw crimson tears falling from cornflower blue eyes. “You hurt me. In a way I cannot fix.”

“Where are you, Jaskier?”

“Did you kill me, Geralt?” Then, he crumbled away, the dust of his remains falling like a cascade on top of the Witcher.

_There was a scream, somewhere, but no one knew where it came from – and no one dared to ask the question that burnt in each of their throats._

* * *

The continent was dangerous, Geralt was aware. Bandits, pirates, thieves, and all sorts of dastards out to look for ~~hope~~ money in a world that was perpetually in crisis. That is how Geralt found himself like this, standing in front of a flesh trader. Weeks, he had spent running around mindlessly doing contracts, trying to find the precious thing he lost.

Weeks, until he ran into a desperate mother, screaming, asking for help, her daughter was captured by bandits – planning on selling her to a flesh trader by the coast. The Witcher could not ignore such a request, _he could not,_ and he went off to look for the girl, with little to no sleep, and a coldness chaining down his heart.

He ran, following the scent of the girl with a piece of cloth her mother had provided. She was _eight,_ and Geralt could smell the distress in the air as he got closer and closer to where they held her captive. He was exhausted, meditation and sleep avoiding him like the plague.

When he found them, the girl was curled, crying, holding her knees up to her chest. He smelled the air, and there was not the putrid scent of the seed of a drunk, dastardly man. The girl was still unscathed, probably keeping her clean to elevate her price in the market.

The Witcher saw red – and without really counting heads, he leaped into battle, slashing two men in half with a single fluid motion of his Silver sword—for these men were no humans, there were monsters.

This fight, Geralt _prolonged_ , each wound was made to _bleed_ , for long periods of time. He wanted these men to suffer, to know what real pain was like. He succumbed to the rage, to the guilt, and he allowed himself to be blinded by the violence and thirst of blood.

One of the bandits screamed at him, and pierced Geralt on the ribs with an arrow. “Hexers don’t get involved!” He screamed, and the Witcher slashed him, cutting his head right off – while he felt yet another arrow nail in his shoulder.

 _Anger, fury, regret, redemption, absolution, guilt, anger,_ **_blood._**

Another arrow, to his pec. And yet, Geralt kept on fighting – until he knelt in the middle of a battlefield bathed in blood – like rivers the crimson washed away the sins in the floors of the forest. The Witcher hoped the cascades of red would lead to the sea.

Geralt was somehow conscious of the small sobs coming from a cage at the edge of camp, but he had no strength to stand – no will. Soon, one of the supposed corpses arose from the conglomeration of flesh and viscera in the ground and pointed a crossbow in the Witcher’s general direction. “You ain’t no man, you’re a monster.” The man cursed, his hand trembling as he targeted Geralt.

 _Freedom, release, end, darkness._ **_Please._**

A scream echoed from the depths of the forest, and a shadow came up jumping from the dark shadows provided by the grove of pines around them. The shadow launched itself to the bandits’ side and pierced his head with one quick move of a sword. Then, panting, the stranger turned to look at Geralt – and the Witcher’s whole world came to a stop.

The wound in his chest hurt, the one in his shoulder burned, and yet nothing could compare, to the feeling he had in his throat. It was _so much,_ like fire, like gold, and he wanted to _scream_ but he felt trapped beneath the stare of those cornflower blue eyes.

“Oh, Geralt… What have they done to you?” Jaskier approached slowly, kneeling in front of his friend, helping the Witcher lay down. “Oh, what have they done?”

He touched Geralt’s face, wiping away a bit of sweat that was gathering underneath the Witcher’s eye. The white-haired man took Jaskier’s hand, trembling, and he stared at him with desperation, with fear, with awe.

“I’m _so sorry._ ” Geralt managed to whisper, weakly, while Jaskier tried to take out the arrow that was buried deep within the Witcher’s ribs. “ _I’m so sorry._ ” He sobbed, and he could not tell if it was out of pain, or _sorrow._

Jaskier kissed his forehead, a featherlike touch, and looked down to meet Geralt’s golden eyes. “There’s another time to apologize.”

Geralt felt his heart hammering while Jaskier took out another arrow, putting pressure over the wound once the tip was out. “There isn’t.” He felt himself slipping away – the darkness engulfing him, taking him away. He smiled, feeling the _warmth_ of the bard’s hand as they danced around his chest, and the _closeness_ of his voice. “I’ve missed you, old friend.”

A sob erupted from the other man, and something touched Geralt's lips – he drank, and he smiled when he realized it was Swallow… Jaskier had not forgotten his potions. “You’ve got a girl to return home to, you ass—”

_He heard the bard scream, asking for help, like a prayer._

In a half delirium, Geralt held onto Jaskier’s cheek, his vision blurred, but he could still see the cornflower blue of his eyes. “I’ve come home already.”

* * *

Geralt awoke in a bed, warm and covered in bandages that were tight around his torso and shoulder. He felt nauseous, tired, hungover, and yet, he was breathing. He sat in the bed, and he noticed Jaskier sitting on a chair by the bedside, his head falling on top of Geralt’s thigh. He was warm, and he was holding onto the sheets as a lifeline.

“Don’t play those tricks on us again, Geralt.” A voice he recognized came from the door of the very well-illuminated room. Triss stood there, with a frown decorating her face. Her hair was wild, beautiful like flames. “I can’t work miracles twice.”

“How?” The Witcher whispered.

“Xenovox, Jaskier was prone to run into problems and Yen and I know how much he means to you. Never would have thought he would have saved you like this. Never again, Geralt.” She turned her gaze to look outside, the sun was rising in the horizon. “The girl is back with her mother.” She murmured, after a while. “Rest.”

She left, and then, he was alone with Jaskier as he slept with his head over Geralt’s thigh – the Witcher felt overwhelmed with emotion. Sorrow, sadness… happiness, euphoria.

“Geralt.” He heard, and Jaskier then turned his head to watch him, his lashes long, his face just as young as it was back twenty-odds years ago. He smiled, sweetly, and that smile reached those beautiful eyes the same color as the sky. The bard seemed as he _finally_ breathed, when he looked into Geralt’s eyes. “Welcome home.”

_Ah._

_Home._

_The Witcher found the thing he lost - and he feared no more._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much for reading. This was absolutely a challenge to write, I was seeking for something and I don't know whether I managed or not. I'm grateful that you made here! This is based off Lord of the Rings, even though it may not seem like it. I watched Boromir's death scene to write this, around 4 times. Then I heard a sad piano playlist for five hours non-stop. 
> 
> I'm weird, please excuse me. 
> 
> Toss a comment to your writer, oh valley of plenty? :)


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